


Hungry

by bloodbonebraid



Category: Warcraft III, World of Warcraft
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-18
Updated: 2019-09-18
Packaged: 2020-10-20 18:41:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,816
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20680103
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bloodbonebraid/pseuds/bloodbonebraid
Summary: When their powers become addictive to others, even the mightiest can fall.





	Hungry

"Jaina?"

The mage turned toward the source of a voice she had not heard in a very long time. She smiled, approaching the immobilized man on the hewn-stone table. Confused, slightly disoriented, he was not yet aware of what had befallen him, and indeed, of what awaited him, soon to commence.

"_Arthas_," she murmured, leaning over him and lightly tapping his pale parted lips with her forefinger when he moved to speak again. "Shh now, no talking. Mustn't distract me, darling."

Arthas grunted wonderingly, glancing around the unfamiliar chamber. Even though the walls and floor were caked with ancient, corrupted ice, he knew he was no longer in his Citadel. Wherever he was, it was terribly cold, a deep chill embraced him; and for the first time in many years, it pained him. He ached from its dull, suffocating weight.

Realizing he could scarcely move at all, and even then only with the greatest of difficulty, Arthas wondered if the cold could somehow be the reason for his immobility, for he did not appear to be restrained. Raising his head slightly, he saw the magically-forged armor that had empowered and preserved him was now gone. He glanced back to Jaina, supposing she was responsible for this theft of his power. All that clothed him now was the forgotten linen and brittle leather that had long rested against his frozen flesh, beneath a shell of plate and mail, a faded remnant of his lost humanity. It was worn, he saw, scorched ragged—as wrecked and ruined as he was from long, close contact with otherworldly forces.

_'Where am I?' _he wondered again. _'What is this oppressive place?'_

_Was this an altar whereon he lay? _It was rough, ice-fractured stone that held him, and he outstretched, awaiting... _what? _There was magic here; he sensed its envelopment, unrecognizable and dark, willing him to this compliant languor that enthralled and held him fast. There were tides of energy—he felt them acutely—ley lines of some unknown purpose, one that sought completion; and presently, _he_ was its focus, a point of juncture, slowly flexing at its center.

Arthas blinked, forcing himself to rally with this awareness. It did not seem to be Jaina's power at all, though she appeared to be its wielder. The currents of it were _alien_, icy, _even to him._

The mage had strolled away to a table across the chamber; she was humming some barely-audible, wavering tune. With a grunt of effort, Arthas craned his neck, his eyes following her movements. He had no idea what she was doing, but this entire event had quickly cast a foreboding shadow across his mind.

"Jaina?" he ventured, with as warm a tone as he could possibly summon. Kind sentiment was so long neglected, a lost art, he had all but forgotten how it should be addressed; but he struggled to recall and then to implement it—a vague, menacing intuition strongly suggested such was imperative. _"Jaina?"_

"Oh, you fussy thing, you," she chided, laughing softly, glancing back at him, uncharacteristically coy. Her blue eyes twinkled mischievously and Arthas felt a chill race down his spine.

'She looks… gods, she looks _crazed...' _he thought.

An air of amused lunacy seemed to enfold her, and he had the strangest moment of recall. It uncoiled as a vapor might, slowly revealing itself, and he remembered wondering once—many seamlessly-irretrievable years past—what the repercussions might be if an incredibly powerful archmage suddenly broke, shedding sanity as easily as one lays aside a winter cloak. He rather doubted the power would dissolve with the mind. Perhaps the magic would simply _shift,_ and re-invent itself, so as to follow its shaper into that dark, lost realm beyond—those forbidden spaces only the mad dare traverse. While he had walked that thin edge himself uncounted times in the past, he had never fully succumbed to its binding temptation; yet, that close brush had taught him well what a relentless seducer it was.

Over the years, Arthas had kept a peripheral link to his once-lover. He had watched her knowledge and potential escalate, even as her control over greater and still greater forces grew into a profundity of sublime beauty. This of course, had been his intent_—_to allow her skill to reach maturity before harvesting it_—_harvesting_ her—_for what he had come to want most from Jaina was her _power_. Seizing and then turning her magical genius to his own dark purposes had been his objective from the beginning of his reign.

"I would like to get up now, Jaina," he suggested quietly.

She chuckled, peering around at him craftily, "So _impatient_," she teased, coming back to where he lay. "Always rushing around, leaping to action before thinking things through to a sensible conclusion. You've been just as much a headache as a heartache, Arthas Menethil." She smiled so sweetly then, pausing to sigh, "Oh, how I once grieved and worried over you..." she brightened, "but, no longer."

Arthas frowned uneasily; her tone of voice was chillingly unfamiliar. "I admit I might have done things differently," he conceded, watching her with wary disquiet. She bent over him, studying his face; her strangely-blank gaze roamed his features, as if seeking some lost secret in their contours. A moment of terrible, piercing regret assailed him, and he wondered if perhaps she was only striving to recall why his life had once been so important to her.

She mused on his words, pulling her strong, thin, magic-callused fingers through his hair. "Indeed you could have," she whispered woodenly, staring, but not really seeing him at all, Arthas realized.

"Jaina, why am I here? And what _is_ this place?" He struggled in earnest to recall his most recent memories; but they seemed shrouded in a pale, motionless veil, indistinct. All that had been before was but lifeless shadows, drained of meaning.

Her eyes refocused upon him and a slight frown crossed her brow as she considered him. "I loved you so," she murmured. "I thought I might die when I lost you. Did you ever once think of me? Was I ever in your dreams? As _you_ tormented _mine_."

"Of course you were. And _are,_" he replied with what was true. Only, it was no longer love he felt when contemplating her. He did not miss her warm embraces, her tender caress; nor did he blame her for his fall, simply because he did not consider it to be one. In his mind, he had been elevated, not deposed. Perhaps she _had_ betrayed him, as his old life had begun to disassemble, but he had betrayed her equally. More so even, as when he willfully tore his own heart from his breast—to cast out all memory of mortal frailty—it had been with her love for him in mind.

She smiled tensely, "Oh, you liar," she whispered. "I know you can feel nothing but rage." Her fingers tightened in his hair, and she pulled his head back sharply, smiling as he grunted in surprise. "Felt _that,_ didn't you?" She gave another spiteful tug and he winced, wondering what had become of his infamous wrath. He wasn't angry though, but rather, inexplicably saddened by her callousness and especially by her apparent enjoyment of his pain. Her manner was in no way similar to that of the Jaina he remembered. And he _knew_ with a pang of sorrow that _he_ was responsible for the dangerous, resonating emptiness he sensed within her. He had corrupted her as surely as he destroyed all he touched—not with undeath, but by his _absence; _and with sudden clarity, he realized how much he truly had missed her, how much he _had_ sacrificed for the cold embrace of power. It might do everything else for him, but it could never warm him as she once had. And there had been a time when that was _all_ he desired.

"I _am_ sorry, Jaina," he whispered, and he meant it. Perhaps recognizing this truth, her grip lightened and she leaned closer, the cruel hand now stroking his argent hair.

"Where did all your gold go, my beloved?" she whispered, winding a lock of his hair around her fingers and studying it with brooding eyes. "You were _so_ beautiful," she murmured in a monotone, "and I was such a love-struck fool." She sighed, moving her hand to pat his cheek; she pressed a light, impersonal kiss to his brow. "You had far too much power over me. Oh, it is _such_ a relief to be free of you, at long last." In a moment, she drew back, pondering him. Arthas watched as her eyes drifted; she grew very still, gazing into some unknowable middle-distance. The sense of cold dread deepened in Arthas's mind.

"Jaina?"

Her eyes flickered, refocusing upon him, and again that unsettling expression crossed her face. It was cunning, subtly malevolent.

"You were once so _generous_ with yourself," she said, her gaze drifting. "What happened to that, Arthas? Murdered too? I doubt you are serene in sleep now, as you were then. Or do you even sleep at all? Oh, how I adored that about you… always such a sleepyhead after lovemaking. Of course, you always gave me all that was yours to give, didn't you? You were my golden treasure,_" _she smiled, "And now you are mine again, aren't you?"

"I have always been yours, Jaina," he whispered, realizing even as he spoke the words to deceive her, they remained the truth, nonetheless. There had never been another.

A desolate sigh escaped her, as if such words from him were now incomprehensible and could only be dismissed. "It's a funny thing about Northrend,” she murmured. “I imagine it must be the constant cold that causes it, but it has a strange effect on a person." She tilted her head thoughtfully. "And it's not just me, there are others as well. There's no way to ever be warm enough here, and there's the awful, gnawing _hunger_. It grows and grows… never stops, once it takes its hold." She paused to study him, her gaze penetrating and wise. "Except for _you,_ made of ice, glutted with power, you need _nothing more_, do you Arthas? _You_ aren't cold... _you_ aren't hungry, _are you?"_

Uncertain of the correct response to this circumstance, he offered none, and Jaina smiled strangely at his silence, as if receiving there some unspoken, yet anticipated answer. "As we thought," she told him, gesturing; and shapes began moving from the shadowy darkness to surround him. "I think you can help us with that," she whispered. "And _only_ you."

Arthas stared up at them as they drew nearer. The hated Tirion Fordring, the once-loved Varian Wrynn, followed by the charred ruin—living, yet, not—that had, at one time, been Bolvar Fordragon. Thrall leaned slowly out of the shadows, his vivid blue eyes gleaming insanely in the low, lambent light.

'What is the source of this light?' Arthas wondered. 'Is it _them?'_ Yes, a sickly, yellow aura seemed to emanate from them, illuminating the chamber. 'The _Light,'_ he realized with a flinch. _'Even the Light has changed in this place...'_

_'This is the very power confining me,' _he suddenly knew. _'This grotesque mockery. Of the Light.'_

Was this the judgment that had been called down upon him for his crimes?

For his... _sins._

'_Where **am** I?'_

Arthas began to struggle in earnest now, thoughts of escape obsessing him. Jaina cooed softly, caressing his chest, her fingers kneading his powerful muscles gently. But there was nothing comforting in her touch, no love, no desire, not even uncomplicated, once-familiar lust. It was acquisitive, covetous.

It was _hungry_.

Thrall's big hand grasped his shoulder, squeezing experimentally. "This will be _filling,"_ he rumbled, "for there is much strength to be taken here, yes." Arthas started, but more from what the quiet words implied than the fierce grip accompanying them. The orc gnashed stalagmite tusks. “…but _gamy, _I'd wager…” he added, with a laugh of mad glee.

"Not to worry, my love," Jaina said, waving her hand over Arthas's unresisting body, and he watched in horror as a cascade of tiny motes—a dust of leprous light—flew from her fingertips, falling upon him. Searing, they burrowed into his flesh, and Arthas could feel all sense of _self_ retreating, collapsing—his strength spiraling away. He recalled the dreams that had plagued him on the long dark road to Stratholme, haunting images of unraveling to the point of no longer knowing who he was, and powerless to halt the descent. Had those dreams been prophetic of his fate? Or had they instead whispered of this moment? Now, truly pliant, for the first time in his life, Arthas Menethil knew what helplessness was.

"They be waitin' fer ya, Dark One," Vol'jin murmured, laying a hand on Thrall's massive shoulder, _"All _of dem. De dead, dat is. _Your_ dead." His pale, wise eyes glittered strangely in the gloom.

"Being here, _near_ _you,_" Tirion said, moving uncomfortably close to scrutinize him, his face rigid with an unwholesome, lingering smile, "being so exposed to undeath for so long," he shook his head. "I fear it is rather contagious, Arthas," he chuckled. "And in one particularly nasty, rather _unexpected_ way."

"Jaina thinks you might be able to remedy that," Varian murmured.

Garrosh Hellscream leaned in, nightmarish over Varian's shoulder. "We have come to an agreement, at last," the orc growled. "Much thanks to _you_."

"Varian," Arthas whispered,_"We were friends." _The words rang hollow, even as he uttered them. Yet another cherished bond, shattered and cast aside for power.

"Close as brothers, Arthas," Varian nodded; he grinned, wolfish teeth glistening. "Soon to be closer still."

Tirion's smile widened into a hate-filled grimace; his once-righteous aura was an ugly, tarnished stain. _"It appears your evil might be of benefit to us after all, Lich King."_

"We thought it a commendable effort on Jaina's part," Uther offered. A pale memory of his former powerful self, he too had been struck down and dismissed; now he lingered at the edge of the light, apparitional.

"You are _dead," _Arthas panted; he could barely speak. All his fearsome strength was gone, his redoubtable body—now a betraying stranger—was sinking fast into a yawning void that he had no power to defy.

"Yes," intoned the man who had once been as a father to him; a man he had ruthlessly slaughtered. There had been so many victims. What ravenous multitude awaited him now, watching, in the shadows?

As if in silent acknowledgment, another shade slipped into visibility.

_"Father," _Arthas gasped. Frostmourne's bite had stolen him away. The terrible wound remained, a rent, a chasm in insubstantial flesh—still leaking the dark blood of a broken heart, the most solid aspect of his wavering form.

"Many of us are dead." His voice, once warm and welcoming, was a bare, cold whisper of distorted sound. _"My son."_

"And so very _hungry,_" Uther groaned.

“Rest assured_,”_ another phantom moved to speak, "we would not dream of excluding _you." _This was the soft, elegant voice of the man who had once been his rival for Jaina's affections—the man whose world, whose future, whose _life_ he had destroyed. A pale mask of loathing, the perfect face of Kael’thas Sunstrider abruptly filled Arthas’s sight. The elven prince leaned over him, willowy and ferocious, fel-bright eyes glaring into his, sharp teeth bared in an unforgiving smile of dark elation.

"I _am_ sorry, my darling," Jaina soothed, and Arthas gazed at her, desperately seeking what no longer existed as her cold eyes studied him distantly, "I’m sorry you have come to this… so lost, and so very _alone, _at the end..."

There was a hiss of rage and another face suddenly loomed hellishly close; eclipsing Jaina's presence entirely. This was a face he knew all too well. It was the twisted visage of the one he had hurt most grievously. The one who had hated him as no other, only to become him.

_Sylvanas_.

Red eyes devoured him, an unquenchable flame; hers was the purest extract of Hate. No righteous pretense, no claim to higher purpose. All else was less in her crimson shadow, for her rage was a mirror of his own. _As he had created her._

Arthas would have recoiled from the oppressive weight of her wrath—and it had _substance_ in this place, a cold razor of fury—but all possibility of movement was gone. She laughed, her voice hoarse and dead in the intimate silence between them; and triumphant, reveling in his vulnerability, the Forsaken Queen pressed close with a ravening kiss, biting and brutal with avarice. When she drew back, _the hungriest of them all,_ there was blood on her lips—_his_ blood. She smiled, her eyes on him, alone, and her tongue flicked out to savor his taste.

_"Delicious..." _she whispered.


End file.
